


Dark Gon' Catch Me Here

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crossroads Deals & Demons, Demons, Gen or Pre-Slash, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The devil does not go down to Georgia.  He stays in New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Gon' Catch Me Here

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my 2015 Halloween theme - this one is for the crossroads square. Title is from Robert Johnson's "Crossroad Blues (take two)".

Bucky knows Steve's not coming dancing, but he tells the girls, "Yeah, don't worry, he'll be along." He already knows Lily's not worried--well, she is supposed to be his date--but her friend gives him the same smile, just hungrier. He feels bad for even thinking it, but maybe he shouldn't have expected too much out of a girl--"but you can call me Jessie"--named Jezebel.

He guesses he should've noticed how close the two of them stick while he's at it, not just tight but glued at the hips. And while maybe that makes for a mighty fine picture, something to think about later, it's not exactly how he was hoping this night would end.

So maybe he's in a hurry, and a fast girl is the best he can do on a moment's notice, but is it so wrong that he just wants to make sure Steve's in good hands while he's gone?

The dance hall is already hopping by the time they get there, the band playing like it's their last night on earth. The air's hot and close from too many dancers and not enough windows, a haze of cigarette smoke dimming the air. Lily plays a good game with her dark doe eyes and innocent smiles, but she dances like the floor's on fire and she's got oil where her bones should be. She's the kind of partner that makes him forget being tired, that there's someone waiting for him at home and somewhere he'd rather be, but it's the worry he wants most to forget, and even she's not a good enough dancer for that.

He stays out too late anyway, lets her wrap her arms around his neck and snuggle up against his arm. It's all too easy to imagine her wound tight all around him--arms, legs, mouth, cunt--still smiling that good-girl smile. He's glad now something made him pick Lily and not her friend; Jessie might've been a bit rough on Steve, but Lily would've eaten him alive.

The three of them don't leave until they close the place down, and though he's wrung-out, drenched in sweat and already so damn homesick his throat feels like he's being strangled, he holds out an arm and pulls out his trademark smile. "Can I see you ladies home?" he asks. He's not a cad, and it's too damn late for two girls to be walking alone.

"I don't know about home," Lily says with a coy little grin, "but you can walk us back to our apartment, if you like."

"I definitely like," he teases in kind, though he doesn't mean anything by it. He already knows he's going to kiss her on her doorstep--on the mouth, and Jezebel on the cheek, just so there's no hard feelings--and then he's going to leave her there. It's his last night in New York, and he's a damned idiot for not having spent it with Steve.

He's not expecting Lily to stop him as he tips his cap, her tiny hand catching his arm with surprising strength. "Aren't you going to see us inside?" she asks, teeth scoring her full bottom lip. "It's not a night to be wandering."

"Nah, don't worry about me," he says lightly, patting her hand. Despite the cool night air, her skin is toasty warm. "I got an early start tomorrow, so I'd best be turning in."

"You sure, Bucky?" Jezebel asks, crowding up close on Lily's left. "We got plenty of room."

"And it's your last night," Lily adds, her dark eyes soft and sad.

He smiles and gives an old-fashioned bow, charmed despite himself at Lily's concern. "Thanks for the offer, ladies, but I gotta be getting home. It's been swell."

He backs away from them this time, one step, two, three, and when he turns he's hit with the craziest shiver, the short hairs at the back of his neck standing abruptly on end. He doesn't look back, afraid they'll try and stop him again, but the eerie feeling follows him for all that he tries to shrug it off. Even after he turns the corner, he keeps his eyes fixed dead ahead, shaking himself once like a dog shedding water. It doesn't banish the gooseflesh, but he pretends it helps.

He's never been in this neck of the woods before, though he swears he's not far from home. It shouldn't be hard to retrace his steps, but before he knows it, he's all turned around, walking down streets he doesn't recall. The apartments are all dark, and the doors and windows of the storefronts he passes seem to gape empty and abandoned until he looks at them head-on. He knows it's just a trick of the shadows--there's barely any streetlamps in this corner of the city--but it makes him want to pop the collar of his jacket to shield his crawling nape against the wind.

It's picked up in the last twenty minutes, what had been a faint evening breeze now rattling shutters loose and snatching at ragged awnings. The dry leavings of last fall have been raked up from gutters and alleys, trash and matted leaves and crumpled newssheets rushing past him as the wind moans at his back. There's not a single street marker on any of the corners, but if he keeps walking long enough, he's bound to hit an area he knows. He's just not quite sure what to make of the street he's on, the way the sidewalks to either side open up, buildings leaning away, until the deserted road has stretched wide enough to hold half a dozen cars side by side. He can't think of a single street that matches that description, much less two, but the next intersection he comes up to crosses with another broad avenue that's just as wide, just as empty.

As he nears the intersection, his footsteps slow. There's no danger that he can see, but when he scuffs a heel on a crack in the pavement, the quiet sound makes his heart kick hard against his ribs. A thin thread of blind panic tells him to turn back, but that's ridiculous. It's been twenty years since he's been afraid of the dark. (There's something behind him anyway, and that's ridiculous too.)

Hesitating at the edge of the intersection, he takes one step, two, three--and the keening wind and the darkness all around rise up like walls to hem him in. The noise deafens him, a howling roar that batters at his ears despite the hands he claps tightly to the sides of his head. It's so dark he can barely see the sidewalk at all, and the unlit brownstones melt into the night until they seem to rise for miles, looming over his little square of cracked pavement bordered by dust devils of trash and dead leaves.

He looks around him wildly--but not behind him, not _yet_ \--and just as he's making up his mind to run, something steps from the darkness at the far end of the intersection. No, not something--it's a man, just a man, but he's too tall as he steps...out of the....

Bucky's skin crawls as he watches the shadows pull away from a manlike shape that shrinks as layers of blackness peel away, strip by strip. A pale hand emerges first, the sleeve of a dove grey suit, the polished toe of an expensive leather shoe. The face the shadows slick away from is square-jawed, age-worn but still handsome, and the eyes under a tousled blond mop are a bright and piercing blue.

"Mr. Barnes," the stranger greets him with a superior little smile. "You're a long way from home."

"Who the hell are you?" Bucky demands, dropping his hands and curling them into fists as the wind dies down. The street rings with quiet where it had roared just moments before.

The stranger smirks. "Oh, I've had my share of names. Would you care to pick one? I think you know very well who I am."

"Well, seeing as I don't want anything you're selling, I guess a name's not all that important," Bucky says, firming his chin.

The stranger's laugh is genuinely amused. "On the contrary," he says, shaking his head, "I think you'll find you want _exactly_ what I'm selling. Because--tell me honestly, now--how exactly _did_ you see the next few years going? Hmm?"

Bucky scowls. His uniform should be a dead giveaway. "How do you think? I'm going to do my duty like everybody else."

"Oh...not everybody," the stranger purrs, his smile just a little too wide. "But go on--how _was_ it supposed to play out in your head? Were you going to march straight from England into Germany, win the war, and be back by the first hard freeze? Was that it? Because if you waited much longer, I can't imagine what you'd be coming home to; I really can't. Winter can be so brutal on the old...the sickly...the frail...."

"You leave Steve out of this," Bucky growls, squaring his shoulders and taking a menacing step forward. It makes him feel disloyal that Steve's the first one his mind conjures--the only one, really--because it's only his body that's frail. Inside, where it counts, Steve's the toughest guy he knows.

"I'd have thought you'd be the one dragging him into it," the stranger scoffs, "considering you have the power to change things for him."

Bucky freezes. He's ashamed to admit he only goes to church because Steve does. It's hard enough living in a world that would despise him if they know how he felt about his best friend without thinking God might be in on it with them. It's easier not to believe. But if he did, if he did buy into the whole idea of God and His angels and a literal devil, then...he may not know what he was expecting from the war, but he knows how _this_ should play out.

"You want to make a deal," he says flatly, trying not to let the shiver crawling down his back show.

"Well, well. He _can_ be taught."

"Lay off," Bucky snaps, letting anger push him past the fear that threatens to swamp him. "So you want me to...wait. Why can't I just wish for the war to be over?" It's probably a legitimate question; he doesn't imagine it gets asked very often, but he doesn't think too highly of the sort of people who'd make a deal with the devil in the first place, and that includes himself. He can't believe he's already talking like he means to say yes.

"I'm not a genie, Mr. Barnes," the devil says, lip curling delicately to show a hint of teeth. "When I make a deal with one person, it's to change things for one person. Any more than that, and it risks bringing free will into question, and that's not a question I want asked. It's so much easier to break the rules when no one's looking, don't you agree?"

He swears he can feel the weight of every lie he's ever told, everything he's ever stolen, and it doesn't matter how many of those things were because Steve needed them; the guilt's as fresh and strong as the day he made those choices.

"So if I asked to make sure Steve's taken care of--"

The devil chuckles, low and dark. "I don't offer advice to many, Mr. Barnes, but for you I'll make an exception. Be. Specific."

He hears the threat in those last two words, but it doesn't faze him. What he wants is a good thing, right? It'll be good for Steve, anyway, and that's what counts. He can be specific.

"My friend Steve. He needs--" _Someone to look after him_ , he nearly says before he chokes on the words, horrified at what he's nearly done. If this guy is who he says he is, if he can do what he claims he can, then what the hell is he thinking? That he can keep things the same, just freeze Steve in time until he gets back? Is waiting around for Bucky Barnes to come along and fix things really the best he wants for Steve?

"Steve's small," he says around a lump in his throat, "and he's sick a lot, but that's not who he is. If you can get him healthy, make him big and strong and able to take care of himself, I'll give you anything you want."

"Anything, Mr. Barnes?" the devil echoes, one sandy brow arching. "Are you quite clear on what you're offering?"

"Well, yeah," Bucky says, hunching a shoulder. "My soul, I guess."

"Your soul?" The devil snorts in derision. "What on earth would I want with your soul? It'll come to me or it won't, in its own time, and then it'll sit gathering dust for the rest of eternity. No, what I want from you are your hands."

"My hands?"

"There's a limit to what I can do to change the destiny of others, but there's no limits at all on what humans can do to each other. Pledge the strength of your arm in my service, and we'll have a bargain."

"For how long?" Bucky asks shrewdly. Unlike Steve, he's always been good at spotting the cliff before he has to jump.

"Not 'to what degree'?" the devil challenges with a smile.

Bucky snorts. "Pretty sure you're not gonna give me that option, but I ain't doing your work forever. So how long?"

"Hmm. Well, since this deal is all about your friend...to the end of Steven Rogers' life seems fair."

"His natural life," Bucky insists, "like if he were normal and healthy. Not whatever you can stretch it to to keep me on the hook forever."

"Normal _and_ healthy," the devil repeats, shaking his head. "Interesting puzzle you're posing me there. But all right. Seventy-one years," he offers, watching Bucky closely. "After that, you're on your own."

Seventy-one years. He doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry. If someone just that morning had told him Steve would live past thirty, he'd have been amazed. And he knows damn well that Steve will kill him if he ever finds out, but _seventy-one years_. That's so huge he can't even wrap his mind around it. Steve will be nearly one hundred by then. He'll have time to do all the things he talks about like they're just dreams, out of his reach. He'll have time to find a dame who's not blind, and it don't matter if it's not Bucky; it was never going to be Bucky anyway. Those seventy-one years are worth anything to him, so he steels himself and sticks out his hand, holding the devil's eyes with a firm nod.

"You got yourself a deal."

He has to change hands real quick when the devil offers his left for a shake, but instead of feeling suspicious, he thinks he should have seen that one coming. The instant their palms touch, an icy pain shoots through his arm right up to his shoulder, but when he wrenches away from the devil's firm, cool grip, his hand looks no different than ever.

The devil laughs, quietly at first but with more delight by the moment. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Barnes," he says with a shark's wide smile. "A real pleasure. No, no," he chuckles as Bucky's eyes widen with alarm, "don't worry about your friend; the next time you see him, he'll be so healthy, you'll hardly recognize him. I've no interest in cheating you and even less interest in him. But _you_."

Bucky has a bad feeling about this, but it's too late to worry about that now.

"Mr. Barnes," the devil says with relish, "you and I are going to shape this century."

So long as Steve gets his own century out of the deal, Bucky can't bring himself to mind.


End file.
